“Yes, they are still genuine!”
Above their heads, Mame Giry’s three teeth were clashing in a noisy contest, full of hideous interjections. But all that could be clearly distinguished was this leitmotif:
“I, a thief! … I, a thief, I?”
She choked with rage. She shouted:
“I never heard of such a thing!”
And, suddenly, she darted up to Richard again.
“In any case,” she yelped, “you, M. Richard, ought to know better than I where the twenty thousand francs went to!”
“I?” asked Richard, astounded. “And how should I know?”
Moncharmin, looking severe and dissatisfied, at once insisted that the good lady should explain herself.
“What does this mean, Mme. Giry?” he asked. “And why do you say that M. Richard ought to know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to?”
As for Richard, who felt himself turning red under Moncharmin’s eyes, he took Mme. Giry by the wrist and shook it violently. In a voice growling and rolling like thunder, he roared:
“Why should I know better than you where the twenty-thousand francs went to? Why? Answer me!”
“Because they went into your pocket!” gasped the old woman, looking at him as if he were the devil incarnate.